


Severed

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: Heaven removes Aziraphale's wings as punishment for averting the Apocalypse; Crowley is there to help him cope.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Severed

Something is very wrong.

It's not that Aziraphale has missed their evening meet-up - it does happen, on occasion, when he's absorbed in a book and loses track of time. It's not even that he's not answering his phone - it also happens, for the same reason. No, it's that when Crowley arrives, after waiting for Aziraphale for close to an hour, the shop is locked - no, _warded_ \- and the locks burn Crowley's hands when he tries to release them.

Whatever's keeping him out, it's _holy_. And it doesn't feel like Aziraphale's particular brand of divine.

There's a flash of eye-searing light from inside the shop, and Crowley pounds on the door, burns be damned. There's no response from within. "Angel!" he shouts. No response. "Aziraphale!"

No response. Crowley slams his fist against a windowpane; it doesn't shatter. Passers-by ignore him, yet give him a wide berth without knowing why.

Crowley is scared, now. He paces the sidewalk in front of the shop, stopping at intervals to look through the hazy window glass. All he can see, every time, is nothing out of the ordinary - the shelves and their books, the counters, a forgotten cup of cocoa, Aziraphale's useless reading glasses.

Crowley will stay here as long as it takes.

The wards abruptly drop at midnight, though the doors stay locked. "Aziraphale!" Crowley yells, near to pressing his face against the window glass - and this time, there he is, shuffling his way toward the door like it hurts to move, like it hurts to _breathe_. His jacket and waistcoat are missing, and his face - and his hands, and his shirt - are spattered with blood.

Crowley doesn't wait for Aziraphale to reach him; he throws open the locks with a miracle and strides inside. "What happened?" he says, as the door slams shut behind him. "What did they do?" Because it has to be Heaven. Has to be - Aziraphale wouldn't ward the doors against him. He raises his hands as if to grasp Aziraphale by the shoulders, but lets them fall, a heartbeat later, back to his sides.

He doesn't think he's ever seen such devastation on Aziraphale's face.

"Whatever it is," Crowley starts, "I ssswear I will fucking-"

"No," Aziraphale says softly. "You won't." He holds eye contact as steadily as he appears able to manage, and when his hands start to tremble he clenches them into fists.

"Are you all right?" Crowley finds himself asking, and braces himself for a lie. _I'm fine, Crowley_ , he hears inside his head. He can even see the unconvincing attempt at a smile. _Just need to get cleaned up_.

"No," says Aziraphale, instead. "No, I... I'm not. Not at all." He reaches out a hand to steady himself against a shelf; Crowley takes his arm, gently, and leads him to the backroom sofa.

There are feathers on the floor at Aziraphale's feet, as bloody as the rest of him. Crowley's heart rises into his throat. Maybe Heaven - and Hell - no longer believed they could be destroyed, but that didn't mean they couldn't be injured or made to suffer. "What did they do?" he asks, again, and waits for Aziraphale to answer.

He doesn't - at least, not in words. But he loosens his bowtie, and unbuttons his shirt, turning slowly - painfully - away from Crowley so his back is exposed. Crowley feels the flutter, smells the hint of ozone that should accompany Aziraphale's wings unfurling - but all he sees is blood, and deep, vicious wounds below Aziraphale's shoulder blades.

Crowley thinks, for a moment, that he might be sick. It's not the same, not the same at all, but for a fleeting second the smell of sulphur and burning feathers fills his nostrils. Aziraphale must be in _agony_.

The blood on his back is fresh, but not flowing; the wounds are cleanly cauterised. This was intentional, and - Crowley's heart stutters in his chest - permanent. If Aziraphale didn't need him - if he didn't have to be here, right this second, he'd miracle himself into the office lobby, calmly take the escalator to the top, and destroy every last one of them. Even if they destroyed _him_ , by the end.

All he can speak is a single word. " _Why?_ "

"Averting the Apocalypse," Aziraphale says, and only the roughness of his voice and the tremor still shaking his hands show how hard he's struggling to keep it together. Crowley blinks away the white-hot fury clawing at the edges of his vision.

He snaps his fingers, and the blood on Aziraphale's back, face, hands, and shirt all disappears. He lays a hand on Aziraphale's arm to turn him back around; Aziraphale pulls his shirt up again with a low, sharp intake of breath, and slowly buttons it again.

Crowley has a sudden, horrific thought. "Did they-" he starts, and can't bring himself to finish.

Aziraphale somehow understands. "No," he says. "I think- I mean, I'm still-" he says, then shakes his head. He snaps his fingers, and the doors to the bookshop lock themselves. It takes too much out of him, though, that simple thing; his face pales and he pants like he's run a marathon. "Best not do that again," he says, voice wavering, "for a while."

 _Tell me what you need_ , Crowley wants to say; instead, he asks, "What now?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale says, and tears spill onto his cheeks; Crowley wordlessly takes his hand, and holds it for long, silent minutes until Aziraphale sniffles one last time and dries his eyes with a handkerchief. "I'm exhausted," he says. "And it... it hurts, Crowley."

It's such an understatement that all Crowley can say is, "I know."

Aziraphale, consciously or not, echoes Crowley's last question with one of his own. "What - what do I do now?"

"First, you rest," Crowley says, and almost sounds certain. "And then, you just... you give yourself time."

Aziraphale's response is a slow, shallow nod. He's still unsteady on his feet when he rises from the sofa and looks toward the narrow stairwell leading to his flat. "I don't even-" he starts, and doesn't finish yet another thought. Carefully - so carefully - he sits back down. "Here is fine," he says, and if he notices Crowley's subtle snap he doesn't say a word. He notices the blankets, though, that are suddenly there, folded over the arm of the sofa, and he notices the pillow that's appeared with them.

"Do you want me to leave so you can rest?" Crowley asks, ready to let Aziraphale be if that's what he needs - though he hopes it isn't.

"Please don't," says Aziraphale, and Crowley breathes a soft sigh of relief.

Aziraphale needs Crowley's help to get properly settled; Crowley's hands guide him down to lie curled on his side under the blankets. Another quick snap and Aziraphale's day clothes are replaced by blue silk pajamas; Aziraphale flinches at the sudden switch, and a pang of guilt hits Crowley in the gut.

"Promise me, Crowley," Aziraphale says, quietly, hand closing around Crowley's wrist. "Promise me you won't go after them."

"I promise," Crowley says, after a long moment, and means it - at least for now. 

Aziraphale's grip on Crowley's wrist slackens but does not release. His eyes are open; every time they drift closed they immediately widen again. Every time is accompanied by a soft gasp. Crowley sits beside him on the edge of the sofa, and reaches out to brush the fingers of his free hand over Aziraphale's temple. "May I?" he asks, and Aziraphale nods.

Demonic intervention is meant much more for causing nightmares than preventing them, but Crowley has always, further back than even Eden, been able to induce a dreamless sleep - on himself or others - if he tries. It takes a little longer than usual for Aziraphale's corporation to give in, but soon enough his breathing is steady and shallow.

It would be easy to slip out, now; Aziraphale won't wake until dawn. Crowley has made a promise, though, and it's not to be broken, not even if he knows the pain - the lingering, soul-deep ache that's worse than any physical hurt could hope to be - the morning will bring. He moves to the armchair beside the sofa, and prepares himself for a long night.


End file.
